


Snowfall

by AlasPoorYorcake



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Promptfic, snow and sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: Prompt: "It was the first snowfall of the year."





	Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "It was the first snowfall of the year." Angst.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to Mark Fischbach.

* * *

 

It was the first snowfall of the year.

So the mansion began going through it’s seasonal renovations, with all of the egos present to help in some way. Googleplier created and maintained holographic, how-to e-books for each task, while Dr. Iplier meticulously cut and pasted various decorations around the house. Bim insisted on making this a ‘fun’ occasion, and therefore picked the music and provided small ‘corrections’ here and there. Meanwhile the Host narrated quietly under his breath, occasionally pausing-- while no one was paying attention, of course-- to sip the hot chocolate he cradled in his folded arms.

“You’re sulking again,” Wilford groaned to Darkiplier, joining him at the large front window and peering at the snow outside. “Oooh, there’s a nice, thick layer out already. Think we’ll get boxed in?”

Darkiplier did not respond. This was not unusual; the appearance of snow always did odd things to the ego, toyed with him in a way Warfstache never could. Not that he would ever say as much.

“Well, anyway, this year we’re all going out and making snow angels-- and you’re coming this time.” He didn’t allow for any response, though Dark’s inherent frown deepened. “There might be a hell of a lot of things wrong with you, but I’m not letting an aversion to snow be one of them!”

“I have work to do,” Darkiplier finally intoned, making to leave. Wilford sidled up to him as he went.

“Of course you don’t!” He grinned, gesturing to the Host as they passed. “I had the Host go through your stuff. Said he’d take care of anything you had to do today. By the way, your room is now  _ seriously _ cluttered.”

“You went--” Darkiplier snarled, his aura sparking, and he took a deep breath, suppressing the incessant ringing. “You went into my room?”

“Yep!” Wilford laughed, looking down at the mug in his hands like he just realized it was there. He offered it to Dark with an oblivious grin. “Hot chocolate?”

Darkiplier stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. He brushed hair from his face, straightened his jacket, and pointedly placed his hands behind his back. Then he turned and walked away.

“You’ll cave eventually!” Wilford shouted to his retreating form, his pout almost audible. “I’ll drill the Christmas spirit into you if I have to!”

Darkiplier kept walking. He padded down the winding corridors until he came to his room, the door cracked. Damn egos didn’t even have the decency to close the door on their way out. 

Dark pushed the doorknob with one hand, hand clenching tightly as he saw the mess of his room. All around, papers were strewn and torn, walls adorned with pink graffiti and taped pictures. His meticulous nature screamed almost as loud as the high pitch of his aura.

The door handle rattled in his grip. Rage blossomed in his chest, flooding his veins and thrumming beneath his skin. Then, like a fire doused with water, his anger snuffed out, leaving him drained. He swiped a tired hand down his face and maneuvered through the clutter to his desk.

With limbs exhausted and weightless, he bent to the floor and reached for the drawer at the very bottom of the desk. Locked. He did not sigh in relief, but he did close his eyes to regain his composure. He was fine.

From there, he began picking up stray papers from the floor, straightening boxes and bins along the way. He walked the entire length of the room, and had about half of the mess picked up, when he found it.

Brushing away the other things on top of the photograph, he froze. That was… he glanced back at the drawer in his desk and swallowed. He slid his fingers around the picture, holding it gently, fondly. His aura fizzled, and exploded with a crack, then returned to normal. Dark steadied his breathing and stashed the picture on the inside of his suit jacket, then went back to cleaning up the mess.

By the time he had finished taking the pink paint off of his walls, he had redirected what was left of his anger towards himself. His room had been  _ ransacked _ and he didn’t even reprimand the culprits. Just… walked away. 

His suit jacket suddenly felt warm, as if the photo inside was burning. Dark pulled a shaking hand to cover it, then ground his teeth at his unbidden jolt of fear. He hadn’t had a heartbeat in years, and still the hollow silence managed to sneak up on him from time to time.

Then a burst of noise suddenly exploded from the main room. Likely, the egos had started in on the champagne. This tended to be the time Dark would sneak a glass he wouldn’t drink and spend the afternoon avoiding any interaction. But now… the hand over his jacket clenched. He had no choice-- he had to know if Wilford… 

Walking back to the main room was not unnerving as much as it was uncomfortable. He had never fit in during the festivities, unwilling to participate in unnecessary celebrations whenever possible. 

The truth of it lied in his resentment for not having a real body. He missed the simple pleasures too much-- a bite of food, the oblivion of sleep, the soft tautness of a touch of skin… trying to feel anything without  _ feeling _ just wasn’t possible anymore.

For some reason, it just wasn’t that way for the other egos. As Dark arrived, Wilford heaved a cry of triumph, Bim and Dr. Iplier cheering, if sardonically. Googleplier straightened abruptly as his system whirred, likely in tune with the sudden symmetry in the room. The Host continued narrating quietly, though one side of his lips twitched upward.

“I knew you couldn’t resist!” Wilford threw himself closer, thrusting some champagne near Dark’s fingers. Knowing Wilford would drop it, Dark concentrated quickly, fingers curling hesitantly around the glass and managing to solidify enough to keep it there.

But then, Dark couldn’t help but stare at the other man, who sent him a sly wink. Trying to look past the madness in his hazel eyes, see if there was something underneath shouldn’t have been this hard. But the pink ego moved too damn fast, his expressions flickering like static on a television.

Dark stared for too long.

“You alright there, bucko?” Wilford peered at him oddly, and Dark felt his throat tighten inexplicably.

“Fine,” he clipped, shuffling his shoulders and flicking the hair from his eyes. His gaze flicked to the side in discomfort, and he muttered, “If we want to go outside, we will have to do it before the sun sets.”

He didn’t see Wilford’s glass hit the floor, but his wasn’t the only one. The Host’s narration barely covered the ensuing silence, until Wilford’s grin produced the most terrifyingly hearty laugh Dark had ever heard. With a precarious turn, Wilford addressed the rest of the room.

“Well, you heard the man! Get out there!” Just like that, commotion started up again, and everyone made a chattering beeline for the front door. Wilford turned again and looked at Darkiplier with a glint in his eye, as if he didn’t quite believe Dark would follow through. “After you.”

Darkiplier didn’t respond, just started walking, and set his champagne on the nearest table he passed. He paused at the threshold, looking out at the expanse of white and dimly registering the biting wind against his face.

It was brighter than he expected. Very bright, too bright, way too bright. White and grey and light, flashing in time with the lightning, and it wasn’t cold anymore because there wasn’t snow, there was just the bedroom and every part of him  _ burned _ , her expression terrified and his to match, and  _ too much light _ \--

Darkiplier stumbled backwards, and Wilford yelped, diving underneath Dark’s arm and into the freezing weather. He stared back at the other ego, his infectious smile drooping slightly.

“Oh, no no no no, I know that face,” Wilford began to pout, “Not the ‘I don’t want to be here’ face, c’mon, it’s just a little snow!” 

Dark swallowed and clenched his teeth, willing his composure to return. He took a controlled step forward, and Wilford’s grin split wider than before.

“That’s it!” He cheered, and Dark took another step, the toe of his shoe dipping into the wet substance. “Relax, it’s not gonna bite at your heels! Though I can’t say as much for the others…”

Finally, Dark put one foot completely out the door and sank his feet into the snow. Wilford laughed openly, then dove backwards into the snow, crawling through it and making his way to the other egos.

Dark lifted his shoe and examined the bottom of it, most of it just wet with clumps of snow sticking to the sole. He picked at it tentatively, examining how it bit at his skin, melting faster than ice. He put his shoe back down and stepped fully outside, registering the almost plastic feel of white crunching under his feet.

The entire property was blanketed, covered by snow in a beautiful mural of white and greys. All visible color peeked out, accentuated from the bland background in a mesmerizing mimic of a child’s painting. It was… appealing, if not a bit too cold to appreciate.

That was when he felt the unmistakable feeling of something going  _ through _ him. His form wavered, aura flickering intensely, and he momentarily fought for control of himself with an inaudible scream. In an instant, the rage from earlier sizzled at his fingertips, transfering to his aura and melting the snow closest to him.

He had told  _ every single ego _ to  _ not touch him _ , who the  _ hell _ thought they had the  _ right _ to  _ remind him of-- _

He was broken from his thoughts by the explosive laughter of Wilford combined with the shocked, terrified expression of Bim and the amused-wary mix smattered on Dr. Iplier’s face. He… Dark took a deep breath. He was fine. But then-- he looked over his shoulder at the pile of white on the floorboards.

“Did you just  _ throw _ snow at me?” Dark frowned, his eyebrows stitching together. He stalked forward, trying not to show how unnerved he was at losing the only escape behind him as he ventured out into open waters.

“It’s called a snowball fight,” Wilford wheezed, pinwheeling and sprinting to Darkiplier’s side. “And you are  _ so totally  _ on my team!”

“Wha- hey, wait a minute, that’s not fair-- you can’t even  _ hit _ him!” Bim yelled across the expanse of snow from his and Dr. Iplier’s snow fort, his confidence returned now that he realized Dark wasn’t going to throttle him into nonexistence. “If you get  _ him _ , we should get the Host!”

Darkiplier blinked, then looked back at the Host, who swallowed audibly between narrating breaths.

“If the Host does not want to participate, we will not force him,” Darkiplier declared, and Bim gave a quiet huff, but didn’t argue. Darkiplier turned to Wilford, looking as enthusiastic as a lamb to be slaughtered. “If we are to win this… competition, we must draw an effective strategy.”

“Right!” Wilford said, licking a finger and raising it to the wind. “I say… strategies are for losers! 3, 2, 1, GO!”

He dashed off in the opposite direction of Darkiplier, leaving the other ego completely open to attack. Dark stared after him, jaw clenching. That was really that-- there was no way Wilford knew, if… 

Dark was interrupted from his thoughts by another ball of snow, pelted straight at his face. He calmly watched it enter his aura, time slowing within his greyscale presence. He moved his head two inches to the right and restored time, unable to help himself from enjoying the unnerved look on Dr. Iplier’s face.

Needless to say, the snowball fight did not last very long. Wilford, with his slinking walk cycle and crazed attack pattern, was practically invincible, and counted as a valuable ally, seeing as he was their only offensive choice. 

Darkiplier, being technically incorporeal, couldn’t actually create snowballs. Instead, he worked as a distraction, glitching all across the battlefield-- including behind Bim and the doctor-- to take the attention away from Wilford, who demolished their shoddy fort and seized their power within half an hour.

When the other egos surrendered, Darkiplier found himself almost breathless with the exertion of so much of his power. Wilford, on the other hand, looked just as energetic as always, albeit he did pause to pant from laughing. The doctor and Bim looked half-terrified, as if afraid of what a loss to Darkiplier might mean for them.

That was about when Darkiplier decided the snow was getting to him too much. Every blink presented the memory of that night, in that room, and every glance at Wilford heralded the possibility of a superimposition of a friend he didn’t have anymore. Not to mention his head felt bursting ready to split.

He made his way over to the Host while Wilford and the other egos talked of snow angels. Darkiplier sat quietly down on the bench in front of the front door, where the Host had stationed himself. They sat together silently for a few moments, barring narration, until Darkiplier interrupted him.

“You went into my room.”

The Host does not deny it, though he insists Warfstache had not informed him of his intention before dragging the Host into Darkiplier’s room--

“You’ve read the script, Host,” Darkiplier pointed out coldly, and the Host paused, swallowing.

Warfstache had not informed the Host, though the Host knew what was going to happen was bound to happen.

“You’re saying I was meant to find that mess you left.”

Darkiplier was meant to find the photograph.

“Why?” Darkiplier growled lowly, resisting the itch to take the picture out from his jacket. “So I can question him, question myself? This is all because of you.”

The Host created events that were destined to happen. Perhaps he is at fault, but only for doing his job.

Darkiplier took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to pretend that white didn’t flash behind his eyelids. “He’s as much of an enigma as ever. I can’t figure him out, just as I always couldn’t.”

The Host didn’t respond. Darkiplier finally removed the photograph from his pocket, staring down at its contents and trying not to crumple it further beneath his fingers.

Perhaps the real reason Darkiplier cannot feel anymore is that he lost the capacity to when he killed Damien and Celine.

“...No. If that’s true, then how come I can look at this and…” Dark trailed off, stroking the photo with a gentle swipe of his thumb. He shook his head. “Why do I care what Wilford  _ might’ve _ seen?”

If Darkiplier does indeed care about the extent of Warfstache’s knowledge, he should ask the man himself. The weather outside is incredibly cold. The Host is going back inside.

Darkiplier didn’t say anything, just stared down at the photo and then up at Wilford, who pointed and laughed at Dr. Iplier’s lopsided snow angel. Dark stayed like this, watching the other man until they all simultaneously decided to move inside the mansion again.

Once inside, Dr. Iplier offered everyone a warning to stay warm, complete with hot chocolate, marshmallows, and whipped cream. Everyone took a cup, including Darkiplier, though everyone knew he wouldn’t drink any of it. After small talk that Darkiplier casually blocked out, Bim was the first to retire to his room. Soon after, the Host left with a pointed silence at Darkiplier, which the rest of the occupants politely ignored. Lastly, Dr. Iplier left with a warning not to stay up too late.

Finally, it was just Wilford and Darkiplier sitting on separate couches, the former almost asleep while the latter calmly placed his untouched hot chocolate on the nearest table stand. The soft noise appeared to wake Wilford a bit, and he shook off the rest of the grogginess. After a moment where it seemed neither of them would speak, he moved to stand.

“Wil,” Dark began, and stood, moving closer to the other man but not daring to sit beside him. “I… I have a question.”

“Ah, huh. Well, fire away, then,” Wilford chuckled, scooting forward to the edge of his seat and looking up with those damned inscrutable hazel eyes.

Darkiplier swallowed, then reached in his jacket and pulled out the photograph. Wilford’s eyes trailed the object, his mind visibly churning. Darkiplier couldn’t touch  _ anything _ \-- what he held in his hands now had an aura of its own, similar to Dark’s, as though it was just as incorporeal. Wilford took it like it was a small child, cradling it in his hands.

Then, to Darkiplier’s surprise, he started to laugh. He muffled it to snickers, then looked up at Dark, hiccuping. He waved the photograph in the air, pinched between two fingers.

“This,” he chuckled, “Is this  _ you _ ? My god, you were a terribly ugly child!” He looked down at the photograph again, and shook his head. “Now that one in the middle, you can tell he’d have grown into a beauty! Are these your friends, Dark?”

Darkiplier did not speak for a moment, occupied by the growing feeling of weightlessness. He tried in vain to suppress it, as well as the dizziness clouding his head.

“No,” he choked out, holding a hand out for the picture. “Not anymore.” 

Wilford handed him the photograph, and Dark stuffed it back in his jacket. There was a beat of uncomfortable silence.

“Right, well. You said you had a question.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Dark murmured, trying to look anywhere other than Wilford and failing. He felt like a few well-timed words could kill him. Like he wasn’t quite real anymore. “Have a good night, Wil- Wilford.”

“You too, Dark,” Wilford frowned, looking bemused. 

Darkiplier wasted no more time in leaving, not even bothering to walk as he glitched out of existence. He reappeared in his room, and turned momentarily to lock the door. Then he leaned his back against the wood and took out the photograph one last time from his jacket, barely holding it between his shaking hands.

Three teenage boys, dressed in inappropriate clothes for the obvious winter weather around them. To the left, a boy in almost formal wear. In the middle, a boy with huge spectacles and tacky suspenders. And finally, the oldest boy in an emo-band t-shirt with ragged jeans. In the left corner of the picture, the right half of a girl’s face, obviously rolling her eyes at the boys behind her. Behind them, snow piled in waves, almost turning the entire photo white.

Darkiplier pulled at the edges of the photo until it tore. He slid down the length of the door, curled into himself, and sobbed.

* * *

 


End file.
